


Let me tell you about John Watson

by UtopiaForAll



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Friendship, Gen, Loss, M/M, Mourning, Rated M for violence and torture, Short Chapters, Torture, but I am not even sorry., i feel bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 08:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UtopiaForAll/pseuds/UtopiaForAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had once told Sherlock that the process of mourning one's loss was always extremely painful and preposterously long. In Sherlock's opinion, the doctor really was a sentimental fool.<br/>Or at least, that was what he had always thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let me tell you about John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my second fic in English. It hasn't be beta-ed and I hope there are not too many mistakes.
> 
> This short fanfiction is rated M for violence only. Thank you very much for reading.

John had once told Sherlock that the process of mourning one's loss was always extremely painful and preposterously long. Of course, the man would know since he had been the one dealing with the detective's death for three long, and terrible years; and although Sherlock could conceive that his flatmate had been in a great pain, he still didn't understand how one could truly consider killing himself because of the death of someone else.

It was stupid, weak and a waste of time. Suicidal thoughts, the detective concluded, were defects just like love and unlimited devotion. They were found on the losing side.

Furthermore, John had also described the physical pain and permanent ache in his heart, as well as the desperation he had felt each time he'd remembered their times together. He had seemed so honest and serious when confessing all these thoughts one year after Sherlock's return that the man himself hadn't dared being insufferable this time.

However, the doctor really was a sentimental fool.

Or at least, that is what he had always thought.

*

Even though he had faked his death, Holmes always believed he would die young, and before John. Thus, he was always comforted in the idea he would never have to deal with that mourning-thing people always talked about. Sherlock did not need to feel concerned (preposterous, emotions ruined his course of thoughts) or worried, for that matter. John would always be fine.

He would, even now that his eyes were staring at the cold and rational detective with that particular glow in them. There were people, sounds, irrelevant things bothering them while Sherlock desperately tried to keep his friend, his _only_ friend awake. Anyone else would have said it was awful. For him, it was simply _unthinkable_.

There were no such things as _useful_ death, but one could concede that there were certain ways of dying which were preferable over others. A bullet in the chest, for example, while chasing a suspect was acceptable. Dying at the hands of someone who had tortured you for hours was not, and yet, that was what was indeed happening in front of Sherlock's eyes.

John was impaled by a steel rob and couldn't be moved because said rob was also attached to the wall. No matter how much Sherlock snared at the Medics and threatened them, the men wouldn't tell him that John would live. They just seemed to think that he should stay at his friend's side and watch him die while they at least “tried” to do something.

That was the worst possible idea ever.

Locking eyes with John, the detective felt something... odd, the sensation of something breaking and _hurting_ inside him. His mind seemed frozen, weak and the one of a child. His thoughts were useless, stupid and most of all hopeless.

_Please God, let him live._

Oh, the irony.

Sherlock simply let out a cry of rage and pulled at his hair. It was John, who, as always, stopped him.

“Sherlock... Stop.” He had never seen such an intensity in those eyes, those deep blue eyes who were usually so warm and caring. Now they looked dead. _Unacceptable._

Because John wanted him to and maybe because he needed it (his mind couldn't accept, was still frozen). The sight of the blood was sickening because it was _his_.

His hand carefully touched John's cheek as if he were the most precious thing to Sherlock's eyes (and maybe, in the end, he was) and the man moved close enough to just make him _feel_ that he was there. The doctor would not talk, could not talk, but he still smiled to him nonetheless, as if he were glad. His eyes said: _You're still alive_ , and always reflected the same wonder.

“You don't have the right to die.” Sherlock requested eventually through gritted teeth, and John kept smiling. He hated him.

His body seemed to act on his own, showing affection, brushing fingers and even placing a kiss on the man's temple. His hands were shaking, his throat was tight, and all his transport was absolutely hateful.

And eventually...

“Please, John, I...” Sherlock's eyes were wide with fear and genuinely pleading. The rob was almost removed from the wall and his own imitation of heart was beating furiously inside his chest. He watched a tear fall down John's face and heard the man's faint apology.

_I need you._

He might have told him, he might have not. Sherlock couldn't clearly remember after this moment. He said a lot of things: mumbled apologies, pleas, angry words, and there was that _ache_ , that hateful ache in his chest and heart.

John wasn't a fool at all, hadn't been a fool. He had been so right. Always.

“Sherlock?” He stared at his friend expectantly and pressed his forehead to his, listening to their breathing, both different, and yet alike. Uneven and frantic.

“Yes, John?”

“Thank you.” They both exchanged one last smile... And then Sherlock's world collapsed.


End file.
